Whispers from Yesterday (2 page)

“Well, send him out to the barn when he’s done. We’ve still got chores to do before supper.”

“I’ll tell him.” Sophia watched Dusty walk across the yard toward the barn, all the while wondering what had brought her granddaughter to Idaho for the first time in her twenty-seven years.

Karen was wondering much the same thing as she stared at the sun-bleached outbuildings, the rotting corral fences, and the dusty barnyard. What on earth had possessed her to listen to Mac Gleason’s advice? There must have been some other option than this.

Only there hadn’t been. Karen had nowhere to go but here. She was at the end of her rope. And from the look of this ranch, she’d finally hit bottom. It couldn’t get any worse than this.

“Will you be able to stay long?” her grandmother asked.

She turned toward the old woman. She had envisioned Sophia Taylor as something other than the frail-looking, white-haired person who sat across from her. Based upon what little her mother had told her, Karen had expected to find a glowering, mean-spirited witch at best. At worst, she’d expected to be tossed out on her ear.

“Can you stay long?” Sophia asked again. “Can you stay here with me at the ranch?”

After another moment’s hesitation, she answered, “Yes, I can stay. If you’ll allow it.”

“Allow it? I
want
you to stay. Very much. More than I can say. We’ve a great deal to catch up on, you and I. Twenty-seven years in all.”

Karen drew in a deep breath, then let it out. “You might as well know the truth,” she began, sitting up straight, her hands clenched in her lap. “I only came because I have no place else to go.”

“No place else?” Sophia shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m penniless, and I’m homeless.”

“But your father is a wealthy—”

“My father lost everything he had because of some illegal business practices. He was probably going to serve time in jail, if the IRS had their way. So he killed himself rather than face the shame of it.”

Sophia covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, you dear girl. I hadn’t heard.”

Karen jumped up from her chair and walked to the porch railing. She gripped it, determined not to shed one single tear. Not for herself or for her father.

She stared at the yard, the outbuildings, and the surrounding land a second time while she fought for control of her emotions. She’d thought cattle ranches had acres and acres of green pastures. She’d thought they had big houses made of logs or bricks, and sleek horses cantering in white-fenced paddocks, and lots of great-looking cowboys working the place. None of that was true of the Golden T. This wasn’t at all what she’d imagined.

I never should have left Los Angeles. What am I going to do now? I can’t live like this!

“Here’s the lemonade, Miss Sophie.”

Karen didn’t turn around at Billy’s announcement. She heard the old woman speaking softly to him and knew the boy was being sent to the barn as that cowboy had instructed.

She frowned to herself. Who was Dusty Stoddard anyway? Who were all those boys? What were they doing in this forsaken part of the world, on her grandmother’s ranch—if that’s what one called this ramshackle place?

She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Her head was beginning to throb—before long, she was going to have a full-fledged migraine. She knew all the signs.

“Are you all right, Karen?”

She turned toward the old woman. “Just a headache.”

“Maybe I should take you to your room.” Sophia rose from her chair. “We can talk later.”

“Perhaps that would be best.”

What am I doing here? I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me. This is crazy. I should leave. Tomorrow I’ll leave. I’ll go back to L.A.

Only there was nothing to go back to, no place else to turn. This was it.

From just inside the barn, Dusty watched as Sophia and her granddaughter disappeared into the house.

What had brought Karen Butler to Idaho? he wondered. It couldn’t be for any good reason. One look at her was all it took to know that. Vain. Rich. Spoiled. Those were just a few of the adjectives he would use to describe her, and he’d bet his last dollar he wasn’t wrong about a single one of them.

If she hurt Sophia …

“Can you give me a hand, Junkman?”

Dusty glanced over his shoulder in time to see Billy Slader struggling to lift a saddle onto the saddle tree. Hal Junker, known as Junkman to his peers, went to Billy’s aid, giving the younger boy the help he’d asked for.

Dusty frowned as he observed them. Of the four boys staying at the ranch this summer, Hal would be the greatest challenge. He had one of the toughest facades Dusty had seen in all his years of working with at-risk kids. The boy had been abandoned as a toddler by both of his parents, raised in poverty, shuffled between members of an extended family, never wanted by any of them. Even his nickname said he was a throwaway, a kid without worth. Just junk. Unfortunately, that was how Hal saw himself too.

Somehow Dusty had to help the boy discover the truth. That he had great value, especially in the eyes of God. But how could he break through Hal’s tough exterior? That was the hard part. Breaking through. It was always the hard part. And he only had three months each summer to do it in.

“Hey, Dusty,” Noah called as he tossed hay into a stall. “Who was the lady with Miss Sophie?”

Ted looked out of the tack room. “Some looker, huh?”

It was Billy who answered Noah’s question. “That’s Miss Sophie’s granddaughter. I heard her say so.”

“That right?” Hal helped Billy toss the last of the saddle blankets over the railing.

“Yes,” Dusty answered. “Seems she’ll be staying awhile.”

“Things just might be lookin’ up, fellas.” Hal’s laugh was suggestive.

Dusty shook his head in a silent warning. The rules were strict at the Golden T. The boys were required to use polite language at all times. Especially when it came to women.

But there was no denying that Karen Butler was a looker, just as Ted had said. Whether or not her presence at the ranch meant things were looking up was still in question.

He hoped so, for Sophia’s sake. The elderly woman deserved good things to happen to her in her sunset years.

“You holler if you need anything,” Sophia said as she backed out of the bedroom, closing the door after her.

Alone at last, Karen sank onto the bed. “I understand now. No wonder Mother got out of here as fast as she could.”

The bedroom was small, barely enough space for the double bed and an ancient four-drawer bureau. The wooden floor was hidden beneath an old rag rug, and the wallpaper looked to be as old as the house, judging by the faded design and curling edges.

It was impossible for Karen to picture Margaret Butler living in this place. Impossible? No. It was laughable.

She lay down, draped an arm over her eyes, and wished for sleep so she could escape the reality of her situation.

Mac isn’t around to save you now. Killing yourself would be a lot easier. You could go park that piece of junk you’re driving in the middle of the desert and nobody would find you for weeks, maybe years.

“Like father, like daughter.”

That was what had kept her from another suicide attempt. Not wanting to be like Randolph Butler was what had helped her fight her way back from the pit of depression. It was probably the only thing that could have done it. That and Mac’s unflagging support.

Mac had paid her hospital bills out of his own pocket. He and his wife had taken Karen into their home for several months. And finally, he’d provided the means for her to come to Idaho.

She moaned softly. Based upon the things her mother had said years before, she hadn’t expected this to be a picnic, but she’d had no idea how bad it would be. They were miles and miles from a town of any size. She’d rarely seen so much emptiness, apart from the desert around Las Vegas—and who noticed the desert when one went to Vegas? This entire house was smaller than the living room of the Butlers’ L.A. residence.

Correction.
Former
L.A. residence.

It would kill Mother to see me here.
Maybe knowing that would remove some of the sting.

Margaret Butler had hated this ranch as much as she’d despised her mother. She’d never tried to hide either fact from Karen.

“Your grandmother is a hateful, despicable woman,” Margaret had said once. “I was lucky to escape her and that dreadful ranch. Never ask me about her again. As far as I’m concerned, she’s dead.”

But that
despicable
woman had welcomed Karen into her home without question. Her eyes had been kind, her words tender. Was it all an act? Or was it because she was old? Sometimes the elderly changed when they faced eternity—or so she’d been told. Was her grandmother ill, perhaps facing death?

She winced at the thought.

Before leaving Los Angeles, she’d figured the one bright spot about going to Idaho was that her grandmother was over eighty years old. If she played her cards right, Karen had thought she might inherit the ranch once the old woman kicked off. Then she could sell it and return to Los Angeles with the necessary funds to resume the lifeindent to which she was both accustomed and suited.

But inherit this place? What a joke! The Golden T couldn’t be worth much more than the thirty-year-old car Mac had given to her.

And why should she be surprised? Nothing else in her life had gone right lately. Why should this be any different?

C
HRISTMAS
D
AY
, 1933

Dear Diary,

I write this by candlelight. The house is silent. Everyone else is asleep. Except for me. I am still too excited, for I love this day beyond any other of the year. It isn’t the presents. We
have never had many of those. It isn’t the dinner, for Mama’s food is always delicious. I suppose it must be the love we all have for one another.

Of course, there were some presents. Mama made Sophia and me each a new dress. Mine is buttercup yellow. Sophia’s is sky blue. And both are pretty with lace collars. Mama must have worked many hours in secret. We wore our new dresses to church this morning.

I saved my money from thinning apples last summer. I bought Papa a new watch chain because he lost the one Grandpa gave him. He was very pleased. I bought Mama a new straw hat. She says it’s the loveliest she has ever owned. It isn’t, but I liked her saying it was so.

I bought something very special for Sophia. She’s been admiring a comb for her hair for many months now. When it disappeared from the shop window, she was disappointed. She had no idea I bought it for her. She was so surprised, and she says she will wear it because I am both her best friend and her beloved sister.

I thought it the best Christmas ever.

Esther

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
14, 1934

Dear Diary,

I am fifteen today, and this is my first entry in my fourth journal. I know now that Mama will give me a new book for my thoughts every year for my birthday. Although I cannot say my writing will ever be of much interest to anyone. Not even to me.

What will this next year bring? I wonder. Fifteen is
nearly grown, after all. Some girls marry at sixteen, although I cannot imagine wanting to do so.

Sophia tells me I will change my mind when the right boy comes along. She says love will make me forget my tomboyish ways. I wonder if that is true. Perhaps. Sophia knows much more than I. She’s been kissed, while I never have.

Sophia’s the pretty one. Am I jealous?

Esther

TWO

Karen fell asleep in her clothes. It was the smell of frying bacon that brought her around in the morning.

When she sat up, she found that someone had brought in her suitcases from the car and had placed them at the foot of the bed. Her cosmetic case was on top of the bureau. She went to it immediately, desperate for her toothbrush and toothpaste, a brush for her hair, and her roll-on deodorant.

Half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, feeling more human, and went to the kitchen.

Dirty dishes were stacked on the counter next to the sink, and two of the boys she’d seen yesterday were washing and drying them. Sophia sat at the table in the middle of the room, sipping a hot beverage from a delicate china cup.

Her grandmother’s eyes brightened when she saw Karen. “My dear, you must be famished.” She rose from her chair. “You slept right through supper last night.”

The boys stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. Karen glared back at them.

Sophia didn’t seem to notice the exchange. “Sit down and I’ll scramble you some eggs. And we have bacon and grapefruit, too.”

“I’d be happy with a cup of coffee and some dry toast,” Karen answered, feeling uncomfortable. She was used to being waited on. But by servants, not old women. “Just show me where things are, and I’ll get them myself.”